


A Good Run of Bad Luck

by xbedhead



Category: Justified
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It is <i>not</i> your day,” Raylan reflected aloud.</p>
<p>Boots frowned as he straightened, coughing one more time and before hacking up some sort of nastiness from his chest.  “Ain’t been my last seven years.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Run of Bad Luck

**Author's Note:**

> This was beta'd by the lovely [](http://sardonicynic.livejournal.com/profile)[**sardonicynic**](http://sardonicynic.livejournal.com/), my resident Grammar Queen and general characterization Gal Friday. I messed with it a little after she dropped it off, though, so any mistakes are on me. Title taken from a Clint Black song of the same name. This is my first foray into _Justified_ fic, so be honest but gentle. Hope you guys enjoy. Feedback isn't necessary, but I'm interested to know what y'all think.

~*~

“Do I hear seventy-five? Seventy-five to the lady with the pink hat, now eighty. Eighty-five-now-ninety-wegotninetyhowboutahundred…”

From behind, he could’ve been anyone – baseball caps and cut-off t-shirts were the uniform for the day and Fultram “Boots” Miller was never one to stand out.

“That’s one-fifty goin’ once, goin’ twice, one hundred and fifty dollars going _three_ times and _sold_ to Mr. Samuel Wayne Lee.”

“Three first names.”

Raylan turned from his perch on an oil drum, brows lifting as he set his eyes on Boyd Crowder. “Never trust ‘em,” he finished.

Boyd grinned, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his denim jacket as he climbed the short set of steps. “But the fella you’re after ain’t even got _one_ – whaddya make of that, Marshal?”

Raylan cocked his head and, with a lazy smile, asked, “Now, what makes you say that?”

“Lucky guess.”

Raylan huffed a little, disbelief on his features. He leaned toward Boyd, dropping his voice. “And by ‘lucky’ I suppose you mean by way of that scanner I saw perched on that tree stump in your hobo camp last time we raided it.”

“It’s a _church_ , Raylan. A church without walls.”

Raylan nodded, amused, as Boyd settled himself against the railing, his back to the crowd as he reflected. “And…think of it as a ‘hillbilly wiretap’ – something our elected officials have no qualms about implementing on citizens of this fine country who express any level of dissent.”

Raylan held his gaze easily and the smile returned to Boyd’s face as he straightened and mimicked Raylan’s stance. “Besides, ain’t my fault Trooper Bergen likes to announce _Task_ Force business over the airwaves.”

“I’ll remind him of that,” Raylan replied dryly. He held out the Mason jar he’d been given earlier to Boyd in an unspoken offering.

Palms out, Boyd took a half-step back. “The body is a temple of the Lord, Raylan – to further tarnish this vessel of God with the poison of my beloved kin would be an abomination.”

The Mason jar dropped an inch or two.

“…I’ll take that as a ‘no.’”

Boyd tipped his head in the affirmative, teeth showing as the smile returned. “Your supposition would be correct, my brother.”

The clap of a gavel sounded and another item – a pair of leather tractor seats – was taken from the auction block.

Ignoring the appellation, Raylan sucked the 180 proof from his teeth then spat as he shifted, stretching the stiff muscles in his back. “Well, _Boyd_ ,” he sighed, “unless you wanna help me locate him, I got a man to find. Though, I don’t suppose you have anything on old Boots off of that wiretap – or any _other_ taps?”

“As much as I would like to assist you, Raylan, I do _not_ have any information. And –” He pushed himself up from the railing as he added, “I believe it is time for my afternoon constitutional where I shall…commune with the Holy Spirit as I walk through the wonders of our God’s creation.”

“Your God, not mine,” Raylan countered, as Boyd started down the few steps of the large back porch they’d congregated to.

Stopping himself mid-turn, Boyd looked up at Raylan, head tilted slightly.

“Old – long gray beard, remember?”

Boyd nodded, obviously mulling over his next words. “Well, be that as it may…should I bring any…supplications to the Lord on your behalf? It’s the least I can do for a friend as dear as yourself.”

Raylan grimaced his way through a smile as he shook his head once. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“All right, then.” Boyd tucked his hands back into his jacket pockets and slowly backed down the last few steps. “I will instead continue to do as I have since the day you ushered me into a spiritual reckoning with my Savior and ask for your safety and peace of mind.”

This time the smile was genuine and Raylan’s hat lifted with his eyebrows. “S’at so?”

“You’re always in my prayers, Raylan,” Boyd drawled over his shoulder.

Raylan watched him for a moment – his thin, compact form sauntering into the woods down a path half-covered by fallen leaves. Days like this were what made it a little harder to imagine Boyd’s behavior as an act.

“Next up are four _brand_ -spankin’ new Goodyears. Come on, y’all – now’s the perfect time for muddin’. Let’s start at a hundred for the set. I see a hundred, now one twenty-five, one twenty-five, do I have one-forty, one-forty, now bring it up to one-fifty. Where’sonefifty. _Brand_ newsetofmuddintires. _There’s_ abidderone _sixty_ fivedoIhaveonesixtyfive…”

He glanced over the crowd again, eyes scanning for something, anything to give Miller away. Maybe Boyd had started his communing already because a hand went up and _there_ Miller was – dagger tattoo running the length of his forearm, bidding at two hundred even on four Duratracs that still smelled like hot rubber.

As he set the Mason jar down on the porch railing, Raylan allowed himself a satisfied smile. He ambled off the porch and maneuvered his way through the mass of county folks, careful of the Solo cups full of beer and hot cider.

“ _Sold_ , to the gentleman with the camo hat. Oh, hell, that’s just about all y’all, innit?”

That garnered a laugh from the crowd and a snort from Raylan, who tipped his Stetson back before reaching out a hand for Miller’s shoulder.

He waited, thumbs linked into his belt loops, one foot slightly in front of the other, until the man turned around. “Afternoon, Boots.”

“Marshal,” Boots answered as he faced Raylan fully, his voice carefully neutral. “How’d you know where to find me?”

“I know you’re not one to pass up a chance at a new set of tires, and _well_ , this bein’ the biggest auction this side of the holler…a calculated assumption, I s’ppose.”

“Don’t figure there’s a chance you’ll let me, uh…say good-bye to my old lady, is there?” Boots asked as he scanned the area nervously.

“That’s not in the cards today, Boots. Though they’ve got a _love_ ly visiting area in Fayette County holding,” Raylan answered as he took Boots gently – but not too gently – by the arm and led him through the throng of auction-goers. “Really. You should see what they’ve done with the place.”

He sidestepped a careening five-year-old boy, but Boots wasn’t fast enough and the kid’s forehead ended up in his crotch. The two staggered away from one another and Boots doubled over, coughing as he groaned, “ _Damn_ , boy – watch where you’re goin’ ‘stead of…runnin’ around like a chicken with your head cut off.”

The kid barely noticed the reprimand, back to his running as his sister resumed her chase.

“It is _not_ your day,” Raylan reflected aloud.

Boots frowned as he straightened, coughing one more time and before hacking up some sort of nastiness from his chest. “Ain’t been my last seven years.”

“Well, what’s that they say? You do the crime…?”

“Oh, I _did_ my time, Marshal.”

“See, _that’s_ where we’re gonna have a difference of opinion, Boots. And besides,” he added with a knowing smile, “you’ve done a _noth_ er crime since then, haven’t ya?”

“Ain’t got nothin’ to say to you.”

Raylan took him by the arm once more, pulled him closer as they neared the Town Car. “You’re lucky you got me instead of those head hunters from Pikeville. You skipped out on your probation then assaulted a man while robbing a liquor store.”

“ _Allegedly_ robbing a liquor store.”

“There you go – splittin’ hairs.”

Boots jerked his arm out of Raylan’s grasp and took a large step back.

“Now, Mr. Miller,” Raylan warned, reaching his left hand out in the general direction of Boots’s chest, “there’s two ways this can go. Either one, don’t make any diff’rence to me, but it sure as hell might to the rest of the folks standin’ around enjoyin’ their Saturday afternoon.”

Raylan watched Boots’s eyes as they shifted back and forth, breathing fast as he weighed his options. The tree line was a good fifty feet away and even then, the spindly and naked late-October limbs wouldn’t provide any cover.

If he made a run for it, Raylan thought, it wouldn’t be hard to take down his hulking frame, plug him in the back of his meaty thigh. Then again, he didn’t need a hundred hillbillies loyal to Boots breathing down his neck.

Left hand still extended, Raylan’s right danced dangerously close to his sidearm, fingers twitching, imagining themselves a magnet. He saw Boots take notice and that was the moment the fight left him. Raylan relaxed his stance and Boots gave him a resigned sigh and they both set off for the black cruiser.

Raylan thought he might forego the cuffs, but thought better of it. Last thing he needed was to give Art another reason to needle him if Boots was tempted to try his hand at being a _big_ -time criminal. He hadn’t been knocked unconscious in weeks – he wanted to keep it that way.

After a quick frisk, Raylan pulled out his cuffs and Boots faced away from him. The once-fugitive said nothing as the metal clanked closed over his wrists and he slumped awkwardly into the backseat as Raylan guided him inside.

Before Raylan could close the door, he leaned out, looking up with a pitiful expression. “I know what I did was wrong, Marshal,” he offered, “but you gotta believe me – it wasn’t never s’pposed to go that far.”

“Yeah.” Raylan sighed as he closed the rear door and reached for the driver’s handle. “That’s what they all say.”


End file.
